More than a Memory
by Micky Fine
Summary: She was staring at him. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel her cerulean gaze boring through his skull." BB. NOT a song fic.


**More than a Memory**

She was staring at him. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel her cerulean gaze boring through his skull. The same unwavering look that had greeted him every day for more than two years would be there the second he opened his eyes. But it wasn't her dissecting stare that met his gaze when he finally opened his eyes. Instead, it was the same photograph of the two of them that had sat on his bedside table for... He couldn't remember how long she'd been gone. The days had merged into one desolate and dark span of time that never seemed to end. Sitting up in bed, Seeley Booth wiped a hand over his exhausted face. Glancing at the clock that read 4:26, he mentally calculated how long he would have to spend waiting in his apartment before he could go into work without eliciting those concerned looks from his coworkers and superiors. At least two hours.

With a groan, he stood up and walked into the bathroom. He turned on the water, making sure it was hot before he stepped under the spray of the showerhead. The warm water washed over his body, but it didn't ease the permanent ache that seemed to permeate him. Turning his face into the stream of water he again closed his eyes and felt her penetrating stare. Quietly, beneath the constant sound of water cascading from the showerhead, he swore he could hear her voice whispering, "Where were you?" And the only answer he could give her was, "Not with you."

"_You're going on a dig where?" Booth asked incredulously._

"_The Sudan."_

"_No."_

"_Booth, what do you mean no? I'm going to the Sudan."_

"_No, you're not."_

"_Yes, I am."_

"_No."_

"_Yes."_

"_No."_

"_Yes."_

"_No."_

"_Booth! This isn't getting us anywhere."_

"_Which is exactly the point."_

"_Your juvenile humor isn't helping the situation Booth."_

"_I'm not being juvenile. Do you know what they do to people in the Sudan? They hack them to pieces with machetes."_

"_Booth, you're being extreme."_

"_No, I'm not."_

"_Yes, you... Booth, I will not be drawn into this ridiculous argument any further. I'm going and that's final."_

Stepping out of the shower, he stood unmoving for several minutes concentrating on the feel of the water sluicing down his body, trying desperately not to think of the frustratingly stubborn forensic anthropologist who had taken up seemingly permanent residence in his head. It didn't work. She was always there and he doubted that either a shrink or a jackhammer would ever be capable of removing her. Grabbing the towel off the nearby rack, he quickly scrubbed himself dry and slipped into his freshly pressed suit. His socks and tie were black, his belt held together with a simple silver buckle. He didn't need his coping mechanisms anymore. He barely felt a damn thing. Only the ache.

He ate without tasting and drank his coffee black, uncaring that the bitter brew was too strong. The dishes from the past few days had piled up in the sink. He rinsed them all and placed them in the dishwasher. The sound of the water filling the machine cut the silence, made him feel as though he weren't rattling around in his apartment. The phone rang, its shrill cry startling him.

_The phone rang twice before he picked it up._

"_Special Agent Booth."_

_There was silence on the other end for a few moments. Then he heard a choked sob and a voice hoarsely cry, "I can't do this."_

"_Hello?"_

_There was another pause and then a familiar voice came on the line. "Booth?"_

"_Hodgins?" The Jeffersonian's resident bug and slime guy sounded different._

"_It's me. Booth... I... Angela just got a phone call."_

"_What's wrong? Is she ok? Do you want me to come to the lab?"_

"_It's... I don't know how to say this."_

"_Say what? What's going on?" There was a growing ball of anxiety in his gut._

"_The head of Brennan's dig just called Angela. It took him three days to get to a working telephone." Hodgins paused._

"_What happened? Where's Bones?"_

_Hodgins' voice was unsteady when he replied, "Their camp was attacked. They still haven't figured out who it was. They tried to take the remains the team had salvaged and Dr. Brennan, she... she fought back."_

"_Same old Bones," Booth joked weakly. He knew, deep down, what was coming next but tried to put it off._

"_Yeah," Hodgins agreed shakily._

"_Where is she?" Booth asked, not really wanting the answer._

"_They... they killed her. She's dead. The dig team managed to save her remains from being scattered. The man who called Angela said... he said that he would have them shipped home for burial. Said a closed casket was... was..." Hodgins broke down on the other end of the line._

_Booth barely heard him. His mind had stopped working the moment the words, "She's dead", had left Hodgins' mouth. It was impossible. She couldn't be dead. Not his partner. Not his Bones. Not that vital young woman who had stood toe to toe with him only a week and a half ago vehemently stating that she would go to the Sudan whether he liked it or not. The only woman who had ever beat him in a fight. And yet the words echoed and re-echoed in his skull. She's dead. His world as he knew it shattered._

Booth replaced the phone in its cradle. A new case. He had to drive to Virginia. The old stirring of excitement at the thought of a new case didn't come. He'd been going through the motions at work for months. No one had caught on. His solve rate was still as high, if not higher, than before. Grabbing his keys, badge, and gun where he'd left them by the door the night before, he left.

He had already driven to her apartment building before his brain caught up with what his body had automatically done. He felt a brief shaft of pain shoot through his chest as he lifted his eyes to her window. It intensified when the lights suddenly flipped on and he realized that the silhouette roving around inside wasn't her. Putting the SUV in reverse, he pulled out of the parking lot and back onto the street.

_Standing in the sparsely furnished, bare-walled room, the thought again ran through his mind, "I shouldn't be doing this." But he knew that he was really the only one capable of doing it. Angela and Hodgins had chosen the casket. Cam had arranged for the transportation of... the body. Zach had organised the funeral. So here he was, Special Agent Seeley Booth, about to break the news to her next of kin. He had done this hundreds of times and it had never been easy. But now, faced with the prospect of having to sit across the table from her father and say the words, it seemed an impossible task. He turned to run, to flee the depressingly square, grey room but was met with the sight of the familiar face of the older man in the orange jumpsuit. His lined face creased in a smile at the sight of the Special Agent._

"_Agent Booth. This is a pleasant surprise. Come to charge me for another felony?"_

"_No," Booth's voice was sad and humorless. He didn't think he'd ever laugh again._

"_Come to ask me for my blessing then?"_

_Booth's gaze shot up to meet the wide grin of his partner's father. His eyes suddenly burned and his voice cracked as he again said, "No."_

"_Then what's up? Need my help on a case or something? You know I'm always eager to aid the federal government. Especially if it results in, say, my sentence being shortened."_

"_Max, I came to talk to you about Bones... about Temperance."_

"_What about her?" Max's face was suddenly full of concern._

_Booth took a deep breath and then, avoiding eye contact, recited the words emotionlessly, like a parrot. "She's dead. Her camp in the Sudan was attacked and she was killed. Her remains are being returned to the U.S. tonight. The funeral is the day after tomorrow. I... I'm sorry for your loss."_

_The room was silent for a long time. Booth finally gathered himself enough to look Max in the face. He had dealt with many grief-stricken parents in the course of his career but nothing could prepare him for the blank expression on Max's face. It looked so familiar. It took Booth several moments to realize that it was identical to the face that had stared back at him in the mirror that morning._

"_Can I attend the service?" The sound of Max's emotionless voice breaking the silence caused Booth to jump._

"_I already made a deal with Caroline."_

"_No jumpsuit?"_

"_No jumpsuit."_

"_Does Russ know?"_

"_I went to see him yesterday."_

"_How'd he take it?"_

_Booth recalled the look on Russ' face after he had said the same words he had just recited to Max. Disbelief and anger had briefly flown across his face before being replaced with grief. Booth had quietly left the house, leaving Brennan's brother clutching to his fiancée and sobbing._

"_As well as could be expected. Not as well as you."_

"_Well, I'm experienced at this."_

_Booth nodded, his mind wandering back to a warm afternoon in a graveyard trying not to listen Bones speak to her mother's headstone. His eyes moistened as he realized that soon he too would only have his partner's headstone to speak to instead of her vibrant and passionate face._

"_How are you?" Max asked._

_The question startled him. No one had asked him that before this moment, everyone too immersed in their own grief. He knew soon he would be asked this question ceaselessly and so he gave the answer he knew would become an automatic response._

"_I'm fine."_

_Max laughed humorlessly. "You two are... were so alike. And half the time you didn't even notice."_

_Booth looked at him inquisitively._

"_She came to see me before she left. Just letting me know she wouldn't be by to visit for a couple weeks. And when I asked her if she'd be ok, you know what she said? 'Don't worry, Dad, I'll be fine.' Just like the day her mother and I left when she was fifteen. 'Don't worry, Dad, I'll be fine.' Only now she's the one who's disappeared."_

_Booth noticed that Max's eyes were glistening brightly with held back tears._

"_I'm sorry."_

"_For what?"_

"_You told me," Booth's voice cracked and he cleared his throat before continuing, "You told me to take care of her. That day in the park when you left with Russ."_

"_I remember."_

"_I'm sorry I failed you, sir," Booth repeated, his head bowed. No matter what this man had done, Booth still respected him. He was Bones' father._

"_Booth, look at me."_

_He looked up._

"_You couldn't have saved her from this. She's damn stubborn. Like her mother. Like me. There was nothing you could have done to protect her from this."_

_Booth nodded but didn't believe it. Deep down he felt that if he had tried hard enough he could have done something to prevent it._

Booth dropped Zach off at the lab. The younger man now served as the forensic anthropologist for the Bureau. It wasn't like working with Bones but Booth felt it was better that way. The serious nature and unwavering focus that Zach possessed suited Booth's new personality and made it easier to get through cases. Many people, including Sweets, had encouraged him to switch departments. Or at least work on a different type of homicide. Surely the sight of skeletal victims could only bring back painful memories of his former partner. But he remained where he was before she had gone. She had hated anonymous death, had narrowly avoided it herself and he felt compelled to help the victims that Bones had felt such a connection to.

Booth stared at the entrance to the Jeffersonian as Zach passed through the door. He thought about going in to see Angela but decided not to. The artist had taken Brennan's death extremely hard and was only now beginning to heal. He knew that if he went in and saw Bones' dark office he would turn morose and Angela too would slide back into her dark grief. He wanted better for her. No one deserved to feel as he did.

_Booth couldn't remember how long he'd been standing there. 2B stood out in shining golden letters on the door in front of him but he couldn't muster the courage to reach out and open the door. He was terrified of going into her apartment without her there, knowing that she would never come home again. That they would never again sit at her kitchen table eating mac and cheese. He shifted his weight wishing for something to force him to move and suddenly, as if by magic, the door opened to reveal Angela. She was still the wearing the black dress she had worn to the funeral only a few hours before. Her make-up was long gone, her eyes red-rimmed and she stared at him wordlessly and then motioned for him to come in._

_They worked silently and methodically quietly packing up all of the belongings that represented the remains of the life of the departed Temperance Brennan. Angela kept a few photographs of her and Brennan as well as a painting she had given her friend. Russ had given them a list of things he wanted to keep. Booth hadn't intended on keeping anything, preferring the rounded edges of his memories but as he helped to pack up clothes to be given to Goodwill, he spotted the earrings on her dresser. The earring he had risked his career over. He quietly pocketed them and moved on. He added only two other items to his collection. The Foreigner CD that was sandwiched between Kanye West and Tibetan throat singers and a photograph of the two of them that Angela had taken at the diner. That night, with Hot Blooded playing on his CD player and the photo before him, Booth cried for the first time._

It was dark as he drove home. The early sunsets of winter suited his mood of late and he felt himself relax slightly in the darkness, the blackness a welcome friend. Crossing the threshold of his apartment, he replaced his keys, badge, and gun where he had picked them up that morning. He drifted quietly through the unlit rooms, changed from his suit into jeans and a t-shirt. He made dinner, eating it quickly, and then glided into the living room and the waiting bottle of Scotch. He poured himself a double and sipped it slowly. The first few weeks after they had put her in the ground he had gotten drunk every night. Then Parker had called. Rebecca had thoughtfully given Booth time to grieve but the small boy missed his father and it was Parker's love that had pulled him from the depths of his despair. Now, he only drank one glass while he immersed himself in memories of her. How her hair smelled, the way her eyes lit up when she smiled, the angle her elbows made when they landed on her hips when she was angry, the way she would say his name. He fell asleep in his chair thinking of her and his dreams were filled with images of her face.

He started awake, tears running down his cheeks. He reached out for the phone, tempted to call Hank and lean on an empathetic friend as he had so many nights before. Instead, he hit speed dial and waited as the line rang four times and then the message service picked up.

"Hi you've reached Temperance Brennan's cell phone. I can't answer it at the moment but if you leave a message I'll get back to you as soon as possible. If this is Booth, I promise I'll meet you for pie as soon as I'm done writing this chapter."

Listening to her voice was a mixture of pain and pleasure that was irresistible and almost addictive. He repressed the urge to call again. Instead he got up, placed his empty glass in the sink, and got ready for bed. Sliding in between the cool sheets, he closed his eyes and let out a sigh. He could still feel her cerulean eyes boring a hole into his skull from the photograph beside his bed.

Reviews are wanted and gladly appreciated. Good, bad, or ugly, I'll take it.


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